


The Way It Is (House Rules)

by genee



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-07
Updated: 2006-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:05:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genee/pseuds/genee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Lance talks to his agent for seventeen minutes about narrating a Discovery Kids documentary with Justin's hand on his throat the entire time. Lance tries not freak out about it but it's not easy. For one, he hasn't spent this much time alone with Justin in years, and for another, it's fucking weird. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way It Is (House Rules)

Ever since Morgan Freeman shook Lance's hand at the Katrina benefit and said, by way of greeting, "You've got a hell of a voice on you, kid," it seems like they've been running into each other all over LA, and all over Mississippi, too. That first time Lance had blushed and laughed a little, and said _thank you_ , and _it's an honor_ , and Morgan nodded and smiled and said, "Find a way to use it and you'll be all right," and Lance had nearly pissed himself right there, Morgan's big hand squeezing his shoulder before he walked away, just like in the movies.

When they see each other now, Morgan just starts talking, he never says _Hello_ or _Hey_ or anything else, he just touches Lance somewhere, his arm, his back, his hand and starts talking. Sometimes it's just a few words, sometimes it's more, sometimes there's bourbon and dim yellow lights and the blues in background, humid and potent. They talk about nothing, about memories, about people they know. They never talk about Justin.

It's fucking cool.

* * * 

Justin spends a lot of time listening to Lance's speaking voice now. He calls at all hours and asks Lance questions about things he has no interest in just to hear Lance curse him out in the long drawn out syllables they both grew up with before he answers Justin's question, whatever it is.

Justin suspects Lance knows exactly what he's doing when he shows up at Lance's without calling first and stares at Lance's adam's apple bobbing up and down in his throat while Lance is on the phone with someone Justin doesn't know. Lance's voice is amazing, a fact Justin knew, duh, but had failed to fully appreciate until recently, which is too fucking embarrassing for words.

Also too embarrassing for words is the fact that Justin has a vocal coach, a god damn _vocal coach_ , and not because he's wearing his voice out on the road, two shows every three days, throat so fucked he wakes up every morning with blood-streaked drool on his pillows, which would at least be respectable, but no, Justin has vocal coach because his voice is too fucking high for Hollywood. It doesn't play on the big screen, it's too thin, too reedy, and it would be funny, it would be fucking hysterical, if Justin didn't care so much, if he didn't want Hollywood like he used to want a Grammy, but he fucking _does_. He wants it so much he doesn't know what else to do.

It's, _yes_ , embarrassing.

* * * 

Justin's vocal coach, according to Justin, is a fucking prissy bitch.

They're stretched out on the over-sized chaises by Lance's pool when Justin makes this announcement, and Lance laughs so hard he nearly splits his lip trying to stop, has to close his eyes and duck his head and still, it's too fucking funny.

"Fuck you," Justin says, but he's laughing too, and it's really good to hear. Lance looks up and Justin's watching him again, eyes on his adam's apple, _again_ , and it's weird, yeah, but not as weird as Justin's hand settling at the base of Lance's throat, cool and pale and making Lance's breath catch right there, between Justin's index finger and his thumb. "C'mon, keep laughing," Justin says, eyes bright and serious, just like he remembers. "I wanna feel."

Lance's phone rings and Lance talks to his agent for seventeen minutes about narrating a Discovery Kids documentary with Justin's hand on his throat the entire time. After that, whenever they're alone Justin's hand is on Lance's throat or Lance's chest or Lance's jaw, and Lance tries not freak out about it but it's not easy. For one, he hasn't spent this much time alone with Justin in _years_ , and for another, it's fucking weird.

Lance wakes up with Justin's fingers on his mouth and the movie they'd started watching a while ago still flickering on the tv. "The fuck?" Lance asks, but Justin just shrugs. "J?"

"You were humming in your sleep," he says, like that makes it okay, and then he shifts them both around until he finds a comfortable position, Lance sprawled out and sleepy but still sitting up, mostly, and Justin curled up beside him with his head on Lance's shoulder and his big hand on Lance's throat, like he's just waiting for Lance to say something, which he pretty much is.

"You know this is fucked up, right?"

"Fuck that," Justin says, warm breath ghosting over Lance's skin, scratchy stubble and wiry curls and Lance casts a sideways glance at him, finally, sees Justin's other hand against his own throat, eyes closed, concentrating. "Do it some more," he says, and Lance does.

It's the weirdest thing ever.

* * * 

Justin's practically living at Lance's, which they have not discussed even a little, and that suits Justin just fine. Lance is way more easy going than he gets credit for, and he's uncomplicated the fuck out of his life here recently, and really, it's so damn _easy_ , just being here, and Justin doesn't want to think about leaving. He just wants to run around in the backyard with Lance's dogs and swim in Lance's pool and listen to Lance talk until Lance is all done talking and has other things to do.

"Some of us still have to work for a living," Lance says, and Justin thinks he's serious for a second, stands there with his mouth open and his eyebrows scrunched together until Lance drops his keys he's laughing so hard, loud clatter on the floor and the pups bounding in. Lance plays with them for a few minutes, kneeling there in the entryway, and when he stands, he tells them to be daddy's good boys, and then he grins at Justin and says, "You, too, man. Stay out of trouble," and he sounds so much like his momma Justin wants to pull him close, make him say it again.

He wants to, but he doesn't.

Even Lance's patience has limits, yo.

 

* * * 

When Lance isn't around Justin likes to play in the studio, messing with his own vocals until they sound like someone else's and Justin can finally hear them true. But mostly? Mostly he just likes Lance.

Lance reads five or six scripts a week and is involved in all sorts of things Justin didn't really know about before, dog rescues and science scholarships and in-house cooking lessons once a week. Lance is a good cook already, but he's not as good as Shannon, who has a really fantastic laugh, and who always brings a few of her pups with her when she comes over for cooking night. They've been doing this since before she got divorced, one week at her house, the next at his, and Justin feels bad for the guys Lance's girlfriends are married to or going out with or whatever, because Lance is amazing, and really, it's completely unfair.

Justin worries that he's taking advantage himself, a little, but Lance says it's cool, and that he's happy Justin decided to stay for a while, and Justin knows Lance well enough to know he's not just being polite. Lance quit being polite to Justin way back in Orlando, and had figured out somewhere in Germany that all he had to do was ignore Justin and Justin really would go away, which had sucked. Big time.

Justin knows he's a pain in the ass, seriously, even when he's not asking Lance questions all the time, but so far Lance seems okay with it. He talks about whatever Justin wants to talk about and he never brings up any of the stuff he doesn't, and he hasn't mentioned Justin's obsession with his vocal chords, like, at all. Not even once.

Even when Nick calls from wherever Nick is these days and Lance's voice goes all deep and growl-y, and Justin wants to slide his hand lower, down his chest and over the bulge in his faded blue warm ups, over the bulge in his own, even then Lance just grins at him and says, "I think I'll take this one upstairs, okay?" and actually waits for Justin to answer.

"Yeah, okay," Justin says, his hand still splayed over Lance's collarbone, inside his shirt, fingers spread between Lance's throat and Lance's chest, pressed against Lance's too-warm skin. "Of course."

Lance looks away and then back and then he laughs at something Nick says, vibration thrumming through Justin's fingers and Lance's eyes dancing in the half-light. Justin's just about to pull away when Lance says, "I'm just playin' with you, J," and covers Justin's hand with his own. "Really, it's cool," he says, and Justin isn't sure if he's talking to him or to Nick, not that it matters because Lance runs his knuckles over Justin's fingers and hands him the phone, tells him to talk to Nick for a minute.

"Hey," Justin says to Nick, and Nick says, "Hey yourself," and then there's an awkward pause Justin thinks about filling, but before he can Nick says, "Lance sounds happy, man. Thanks for, you know, whatever," and Justin doesn't know what to say to that besides, "Yeah, uhm?"

He doesn't know a lot of things, apparently, because Nick laughs and says, "Dawg, we're just friends. You know that, right?" and Justin says, "Dude, whatever, it ain't like that," but Justin wonders what it means that he knows the difference between Lance talking to his other friends and Lance talking to Nick just by the way Lance's pulse jumps under his finger, the way Lance's skin flushes beneath his palm. Justin wonders if Nick does it on purpose, winds Lance up because he can, because they're friends. Because they're friends _like that_.

Justin listens to Nick laugh, listens to Nick's voice, raspy, different from Lance's, different from his own, too. Justin says something about basketball and Duke and listens to Nick a while longer.

"You got a nice speaking voice, Carter," Justin says, and Nick laughs some more, says, "Yeah, I _know_. You want me to talk dirty to you, Timberlake?"

"Mmm, maybe," Justin says, like he's really thinking about it, but Lance rolls his eyes and takes the phone away from Justin's ear, puts Justin's hand back on his throat while he talks to Nick about nothing, about touring, about some guy named Bob, and Justin goes back to feeling Lance's vocal chords in action, listening to the way his voice changes as he speaks, how it flows and expands and folds back in on itself sometimes, and neither one of them says a word about any of it afterwards, and that's just fine with Justin.

Really.

It is.

* * * 

 

Stuff Justin Doesn't Want To Talk About, Besides How Hot Lance Is

> 1\. Cameron  
> 2\. His career, such as it is  
> 3\. Tattoos on people's backs  
> 4\. CFTC  
> 5\. Cameron  
> 6\. Jesse  
> 7\. Dust mites  
> 8\. Myspace  
> 9\. Lukas Ridgeston  
> 10\. Cameron

* * * 

The next time Lance sees Morgan they're at an art show in Mississippi, and Morgan says he remembers when the ground they're standing on was wide open green. Lance remembers when it was a Piggly Wiggly but he doesn't say that, he says, _It must've been somethin' to see_ , and Morgan nods, pats Lance on the back and ambles into the main gallery. It's crowded in there, celebrities and fundraisers and lots of local VIPs, and Lance lingers outside a while longer, bums a smoke from Tim McGraw.

Inside he chats up artists and organizers and even his high school English teacher, and is finally making his way toward the bar when he hears Morgan's laugh from somewhere behind him. Morgan has a great laugh, almost a giggle, and when Lance turns around Morgan's looking right at him. He's too far away for any of the little touches Morgan's so comfortable with, but he raises his hand and sort of wiggles his fingers, like he would if he could, which makes Lance laugh, too. He doesn't notice his hand drifting to his throat to feel the sound there until he sees Morgan mirror the action, and then both of them laugh some more. Morgan winks, and Lance grins, and later, when everyone's saying their good-byes, Morgan kisses Faith's cheek and shakes Tim's hand and dips his head low and tells Lance to keep up the good work, his fingers disappearing from Lance's bicep while Lance is still saying, "Take care, man. See you soon?"

Lance drives to his parent's house after, and he's not surprised at all to find his momma in the kitchen, waiting up with a paperback and a cup of tea, a plate of warm madelines in the center of the table. When she asks him how long he's been friends with Morgan Freeman, Lance doesn't even ask how she knows Morgan was there tonight, just says he's not sure, but he knows they met after the hurricane, which is true. "What about Justin?" Diane asks, her mouth twitching a little, like she knows something he doesn't.

"What about Justin, what?" Lance asks, hands splayed palms up in front of him, pretending he needs to count out the years he's been friends with Justin on his fingers. "I'm gonna need to use my toes here pretty soon."

Diane swats him with her book and tells him not stay up too much later, Stacy's bringing the kids over in the morning, _early_ , and she knows they're going to want to play with their uncle. Who they miss. And who they don't get see often enough. Hint hint.

Lance kisses his momma goodnight and thinks about calling Justin, but Justin's in the UK for a few days, and it's complicated, and Lance doesn't do complicated anymore.

Lance's dad wanders through the kitchen, ruffles Lance's hair and says, "Morgan Freeman, huh? I guess it's still good to be you."

"It is," Lance agrees, and his dad snitches a couple of madelines and leans against the kitchen counter, glancing towards the open doorway as he brushes the crumbs from his hands. "Don't tell your momma," he says, and Lance grins, promises his lips are sealed, the same promise he's been making his cookie-stealing dad since he was too young to reach the plate in the center of the table without a little help.

It's good to be Lance, no question, but it's good to be home, too.

* * * 

"So," Stacy says. "Are you gonna tell me, or should I start guessin'?"

Lance thinks about the number of secrets he's managed to keep from his sister in his lifetime (zero) and the number of times he's wanted to call Justin since he left LA (he lost track two days ago) and decides there's no point trying, not with his flight delayed and nothing to do but drive around, his niece and nephew asleep in the backseat and the radio turned down low.

"It's nothin'," Lance says, turning in his seat a little. Leighton sighs and her brother shifts in his car seat, his bare foot sticking out from under the dinosaur blanket he remembers Diane piecing together last fall. Lance reaches back and tucks the quilt around him, brushes his fingers over Leighton's cheek.

Stacy watches him in the rearview and rolls her eyes. "You know I only believe you if by _nothin'_ you mean _Justin_ , right?"

Someday Lance will apologize to his niece and nephew for turning their mother into a human lie detector before she was even old enough to drive, but right now all he can do is whisper fervent promises to make it up to them as best he can. With ponies. And drum sets. And backstage passes. And when they're older, adventure vacations. To Europe.

"Hey," Stacy says. "I want a European adventure, too!"

"Oooh, I'm tellin' Fo-orrrd," Lance says, and Stacy giggles, flicks his ear without taking her eyes off the road.

It's like being a kid again, only better.

* * * 

Justin does his own laundry, and he makes his own bed, and he adds random items to the grocery list in the pantry and then buys them himself without crossing them off the list, and Lance's housekeeper, who in the three years she's been with him has never so much as raised an eyebrow about Lance's parties or Lance's dogs or Lance's semi- live-in boyfriends, is _clearly_ unhappy about the Justin situation.

"It's nothing personal," Lance explains, mentally adding twenty percent to her salary because Justin doesn't like strangers touching the things that touch his body. "He's just, you know," and Lance waves his hands around a little, as if there really are words for the kind of weird Justin is, but he's just too polite to use them.

" _Estranho_ ," his housekeeper says, smiling a little, nodding. "I understand."

Lance repeats the word, and then guesses, "Strange?"

" _Sim, quase_ ," she says, smiling wider now, blushing as her own hands gesture between them, fingers splayed. "Strange. Peculiar."

Lance laughs, low and deep, and she laughs, too. "Exactly," he says, fondly. "Yes. _Estranho_."

It's a good word, Lance thinks, and not just for Justin. For him, too, for the way they are, together.

They're peculiar.

* * * 

Justin knows Lance was out of town while he was in the UK, there was a charity art show in Mississippi which means he spent a few days with his family, too, and he probably did some other things as well, some Lance-type things, Justin isn't sure what, exactly, but Lance has been reading since he got back, Justin knows that much for sure. There are scripts scattered over the coffee table and the kitchen counter and stacked up beside Lance's chair on the patio, his sunglasses perched on top and green sticky notes marking pages here and there, and Justin had missed him so much when he was gone he hadn't even considered going back to his own house when his flight finally touched down. He'd come straight here, crawled under Lance's shower and into Lance's bed and it's the first time he's done that in _years_ , way too many to count, but Lance didn't seem to mind.

Justin had mumbled, "Fucking shittyass flight," and pulled Lance close enough to feel him murmur something in return, something that sounded a lot like, "Fuck, Justin." Justin might have rocked his hips a little then, he'd thought about it anyway, how Lance would feel, all warm skin and smooth muscles, how he'd sound, how they'd sound together, and _fuck_ , he's thinking about it now, too.

He thinks about it a lot.

He thinks leaning in the doorway like a rentboy with a hard on and imagining what it would be like to drop to his knees and crawl over to the sofa, where Lance is reading right now, is a sad fucking fantasy, but he thinks about it anyway. Lance has never been more gorgeous than when he's working, light spilling in from all the open windows, his legs splayed and his body twisted a little to the side, scribbling a note in the margins. He thinks about how Lance would look with Justin kneeling between his legs, with Justin's hands on his thighs, with Justin breathing in the scent of him, his face pressed against warm denim, his cheek rubbing over Lance's dick, hard and thick and waiting, and _fuck_ , that's it, exactly. Lance is waiting, and now that he's thought it, he knows it's true.

Justin closes his eyes, runs the heel of his hand over his own dick and when he looks up again, Lance's is looking right at him, smirking a little. Justin cups his dick and bites his lip and Lance laughs, calls him a fucking tease and throws a pen at him.

It's warm from Lance's hand, and bitten at the end, and Justin wonders if the pen has been in Lance's mouth or if someone else has been over, reading scripts with Lance and chewing on his pens, which is gross in so many ways he can't even think about it. He throws the pen in the trash on his way through the kitchen and washes his hands and when he comes back, Lance is reading again, his head bent, a fresh pen between his fingers.

Justin sits next to him and runs his knuckles down the curve Lance's neck, tosses the script onto the coffee table and just rubs Lance's shoulders, watches his pale fingers digging into knotted up muscles and pinkgold skin and tries not to think about anything else. Justin's thumbs crack as he presses around the edges of Lance's tattoo, soft huff of breath and Lance's muscles tense but Justin holds him still, keeps working until he feels Lance relax again, feels the tension drain away. Lance makes the best sounds, and Justin can't help settling Lance back against his chest and sliding his hand over Lance's throat just to feel. He says, "I missed you, man. Stop working and talk to me."

Lance talks about his trip to Mississippi, about his sister, about the scripts he's been reading and the projects he's considering, about what it's like working with Joey again, and Justin just listens, breathes it all in. There's something _right_ about this, about him and Lance, about this, just this, but Justin still thinks it could be more.

He leans forward and kisses the soft skin just beneath Lance's ear, and Lance's breath catches in his throat, Justin feels it there, just beneath his palm.

It's time.

* * * 

They've both been working like crazy, Lance is voicing a documentary on space exploration and has two movies in production, Justin's been on tour, promoting the fuck out his second record, making appearances everywhere and dodging questions about his break up with Cameron and his rumored romance with his costar in an as-yet-to-be released indy film. Justin laughs a lot in these interviews, talks about how happy he is, how happy he is to be back. _Back where? And with who?_ one of the E! reporters finally asks, and Justin says, _Aww, why you gotta go there, man?_ He smiles big and bright and pretends he's blushing, like maybe he just said something he didn't mean to say, which, of course, he didn't.

Two weeks before the tour wraps Joey emails him a clip of Lance and Shannon and a bunch of their friends singing some god awful country song at a karaoke bar in WeHo, a drink in one hand and what appears to be Nick Carter's shoulder in the other, and Justin finds himself twanging, _Welcome to my house, buckle up tight, everybody sings and drinks and laughs and gets high_ at soundcheck the next day, and cracking himself up before he gets any further.

He calls Lance after the show and makes him sing it again, closes his eyes and listens, his hand on his own throat, and it isn't the same, but it's close. Justin says, "You and me, man. We're doin' this one, last night of the tour, all us, whoever's around," and Lance laughs and changes the subject, but he doesn't say no.

Less than hour later there's an .mp3 in Justin's inbox with a note that says, _Kane, House Rules._ And then, _I'm gonna have to hear you sing it before I decide. ♥ ♥ ♥ Call me tomorrow? L._

It's Justin's new favorite song.

* * * 

Lance's backyard is in full bloom, flowers everywhere and Justin rubs his eyes with his knuckles, wonders if he's going to sneeze. He's been out here for a while, just sitting with his arms wrapped around Lance, like they have all the time in the world. It's been months since they've been able to do this, just this, and Justin's missed it more than he has the words for right now. He slides his hand up from the middle of Lance's chest, over his throat, warm skin, barest hint of stubble, _God, Justin_ , Lance says, and it feels just like coming home.

"Tell me something," Lance says, and this isn't how its supposed to go, that's Justin's line, but it sounds right like this, too.

"You're friends with Morgan Freeman," Justin says, and Lance turns to see him, laughter in his eyes, warm lips brushing over Justin's before Lance turns back around and says, "Yeah, okay, tell me something I don't know."

Justin smiles, shifts a little, runs his bare foot up and down Lance's leg, soft fuzz that almost tickles. This is what he wants, what he's always wanted and just didn't have the eyes to see. "Trace signed papers on the house yesterday."

"Mmmm," Lance says, sound thrumming through Justin's fingers. He knows how that sound feels from the inside out now, Lance's mouth like liquid heat against his skin, a slow burn, pulse beating wild and Lance's teeth sinking into his shoulder, both of them sweaty and flushed and caught up in each other, in how they sound, in what it means for them to be together, now, like this. "That's good, yeah?"

"Oh, yeah," Justin says, and Lance nods, lifts one of Justin's hands and presses a kiss to his palm. Justin's skin is still faintly soapy and a little sweet, like he hasn't been out here half the morning already, tossing tennis balls for Lance's pups and waiting, just this once. "It's perfect."

It's more than perfect, Lance thinks. It's the way it is.   
   
   


\-- End -- 


End file.
